The Glade
by Concolor44
Summary: Song-fic. The team must deal with Gar's reaction after tragedy strikes ... as must he. Rated for character death.


**The Glade**

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_[Author's Notes: _

_I know, I know. What the hell, right? I even *promised* a few of you that I would finish "Instinct" before doing anything else. The problem is that I didn't get my Muse on board with that promise._

_I'm not usually much of one for song-fics, but this one just poured out as soon as I heard Miranda Lambert singing "Over You". I don't really even LIKE country music (well, not much … I'll listen to it before I'll listen to rap) and was flipping through the channels and flipped past GAC and there she was. And she's mighty easy on the optics, so I paused briefly. And then I heard the words._

_And here we are.]_

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. . .

. . .

Nightwing looked up when the door to the ops room _shished_ open, admitting two young women who comprised the distaff arm of the Titans. Raven spoke very softly to Starfire, so softly that his keen ears only caught every third or fourth word; the alien nodded and handed her a small package, whereupon Raven sank out of sight in a pool of inky darkness.

Walking – not floating – over to where he sat, Starfire gave her lover a small, sad smile and then bent to kiss him.

He sighed, leaned back in his chair, and said, "So. Nothing's changed."

"No." She held out her hand and dropped a T-Com into his. "He will not take it."

"And you asked him about moving back here?"

"We did," she replied, nodding as she removed her long overcoat. "But he prefers his cabin." The coat was tossed over the back of a nearby chair.

"Is he still, ah … hunting?"

"That, I do not know. It was mid-afternoon when we arrived, and we did not stay very long. Raven … was experiencing difficulties."

"As per usual."

"… Yes."

"And Vic's letters?"

"That was the package which I gave to Raven a minute ago."

"Unopened."

"… Yes. She was intending to take them to Victor."

He rested a fist against the side of his head, saying nothing for a moment. But then a soft "Damn" escaped.

"I am very sorry, Richard. But there was … and nothing that we said would … it was as if …"

"No, Kori, it's fine." He motioned her closer and then took her hand and parked her on his lap. She gratefully snuggled against his chest. "I just feel so … awful for him. He needs therapy."

With a short _hrumph_ sound, she insisted, "He _**needs**_ to talk with his _**friends**_."

"Well, yeah, that, too. Honestly, though, I'm at a loss for what I'd say to him; and he as much as promised to use my skull as a volley ball if I ever went back there again." He held her very close, caressing the top of her head with his chin. "If our situations were reversed …"

Placing a slender finger against his lips, Starfire said, "Hush. Please do not speak of such things. There is a concept that is common to both our worlds, and it speaks of one's duty to avoid the borrowing of trouble before it comes due."

"Sorry, Sweetheart."

A more-or-less comfortable silence settled about them until Raven made another appearance.

"Hey, Raven. You give Victor his letters?"

"Yes."

He quirked an eyebrow at her.

Her expression utterly flat, she added, "And he was just as despondent as all the other times. What did you expect?" She floated over into the kitchen and ran some water into her kettle.

Following her with his eyes, he waited until she had the water heating and asked, "I don't suppose he gave any reason for not reading them?"

"No, he didn't. He never does. But you know the reason. It's the same reasoning, if you wish to call it that, behind the fact that the construction of his living space was undertaken without the use of nails."

There wasn't really anything he could say to that, so he kept quiet.

The kettle began a shrill protest, and Raven moved it off the eye, filling her tea cozy. She floated back out into the common area, the cozy, her teacup, and a small cream pitcher following her on a disk of black energy. Nightwing watched as she got settled on the couch and began assembling her libation.

Starfire stirred and looked up at him. "Richard?"

"Hm?"

"I would like for you to make love to me now."

That statement was guaranteed to paste a smile on his face, and this time was no exception. "I think that is a _**capital**_ idea." He stood, still holding her close and walked a measured pace toward the door.

Starfire called over his shoulder, "Raven, will you be joining us?"

She considered the question briefly and nodded. "You two go ahead and start. I'll be along when I finish my tea. That should set me up for a very good session of meditation later. Thank you for asking."

"It is my pleasure, always."

That brought a smirk to Raven's lips, the first sign of real emotion she had shown all evening. "Yes, you do typically seem to derive rather a _**lot**_ of pleasure from our, ah, mutual activities."

"It is an excellent method for the relief of stress."

"And Tuesdays are almost always stressful. Yes, I had made the connection previously."

Nightwing had gotten to the door and negotiated the opening thereof. He glanced back at Raven. "Should we …"

"Yes, you should. Go ahead and remove all the light bulbs and mirrors and any other glass objects to another room. Star has a small store of my candles."

"Okay. Just checking." And they made their exit.

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. . .

Garfield Logan sat in the flickering dance of shadow at the edge of the glade, head back, eyes closed, his mind far away.

He wore nothing but a brief loincloth of natural fiber that he had pounded out of some soaked stalks. The soles of his feet were hardened now, tough enough to shrug off gravel or thorns or uneven terrain.

About half of a well-gnawed rabbit lay on the ground beside him, the remains of his supper. He typically only ate once a day now, depending on his success at locating prey. This rabbit had been plump, and filled his wolf's belly quite nicely.

Sometimes he would hunt as a great cat, or even a large reptile, but usually he was most comfortable stalking his food as a wolf. Having placed his cabin in the hills several kilometers to the east of Jump City, game in the area was plentiful. Quail and voles, squirrels and partridge were relatively easy to come by, but his favorite meal was rabbit. It just seemed somehow more satisfying.

He always waited until the girls left before embarking on his hunt. He didn't want to make them uncomfortable, and he knew they worried for him already.

He was unsure why, though. They mourned, in their own way. He was simply mourning in his. This, he told himself often, repeating it out loud. Eventually, he might even believe it.

But right that minute, he wasn't thinking about that. He was thinking about his tenth date with Terra, which would be the fourth one after he had told her he loved her.

_. . . . . . . They had driven a long way north and slightly east,  
stopping in to spend a few days  
at the Klamath Falls Winter Festival.  
Gar had heard many good things about it  
and looked forward to watching the ice-carving contest.  
Terra was the very embodiment of excited anticipation,  
and the Festival didn't disappoint._

_That first night,  
when they returned to the cabin he had rented,  
Gar realized with a slight panic  
that the management hadn't supplied them  
with the extra cot he'd requested.  
He was going to make the trip  
halfway back down the mountain to get one,  
but Terra had placed a hand lightly on his arm  
and had given her head a brief shake.  
He didn't understand at first,  
but then her shy smile hit home  
and all the blood left his head for points south._

'_Are … are you sure?'_

'_As sure as I've ever been about anything.'_

_They got very little sleep that night . . . . . . ._

It was always so perfect. Everything about them as a couple was just … yeah. It was perfect. She completed him. He completed her. Sometimes it felt to him as if they were a single soul that just happened to be inhabiting two bodies. Three quarters of their communication was non-verbal. It bordered on telepathy.

He had to know it was too good to last. They had made the gods jealous with the perfection of their love. And that was when Slade returned …

Shaking his head to chase away the ghosts, he stood and walked slowly back to his cabin. It was, after all, nearly sundown.

The odd little building came in sight and Gar picked up his pace. To most people, the first thing that popped into their heads upon spying his home was 'pagoda'. But that's not really fair. It was at once more basic and more sophisticated than that. Only natural materials had gone into the construction of his dwelling, and that applied to his tools as well. He had made a few stone axes, chipping the edges to a useful keenness, and one stone draw-knife for fine work. In place of mortise-and-tenon techniques, he'd adapted hewn grooves and rope, and the results spoke for themselves. The structure wasn't exactly weather-tight, but it kept him dry. And once the local fauna discovered that an enormous green bear occasionally made its home there, they kept their distance.

He made his way inside and then into the room containing his water supply and wash basin, where he laved his face and hands thoroughly, rinsing away the last traces of the rabbit's blood. A quick drying session with a small, rough towel, and he was ready for the next phase of his daily routine.

Moving more slowly, almost reverently (and certainly reluctantly) he exited the opposite side of the building and strode south. The ground swelled a bit, rising some ten or twelve meters over the half-minute it took him to walk to his destination at the far side of his glade. Then he sank to his knees, bowed his head, and let the flood of memory come.

_. . . . . . . The trap had surprised them all.  
No single hint had been discovered  
that the old factory was occupied,  
and they had just about decided that  
the anonymous tip was a hoax,  
when Cyborg moved into range of a  
proximity switch.  
Less than two seconds passed between  
the time that his sensory array identified  
the low-level radiation for what it was,  
and the subsequent explosion.  
He didn't have time to draw a decent breath,  
much less shout a warning._

_Gar had been standing beside Terra,  
and they were both blown in the same direction.  
The bomb must have been a powerful one,  
because much of the superstructure of the building  
came down on top of them.  
The changeling didn't know  
how long he was unconscious,  
but he was the first one to shake himself  
back to some semblance of awareness.  
Then he almost wished he hadn't . . . . . . ._

A muffled sob … a few quick breaths … trying to maintain control …

Every time. Every – _**stinking**_ – time he came out here, he told himself he wouldn't lose it. He promised himself that he would just visit and meditate and that would be that. But he was a terrible liar and always had been. He reached out, steadying himself against the smooth granite surface in front of him. The memories would not be denied.

_. . . . . . . The dust hung in the air,  
a somber backdrop to tragedy  
as he scrambled over to where he thought she was.  
And really, it only took him seconds to find her._

_When the structural steel  
began to come down around them,  
he had reflexively morphed into a wasp,  
using that creature's maneuverability  
and small size to try to come out unscathed,  
and it had almost worked.  
But … well, sometimes you're the windshield  
and sometimes you're the bug.  
Something extremely rigid and massy  
swatted him out of the air.  
When he regained his senses,  
he had reverted to his human form._

_Terra hadn't had that option.  
Nor was any earth or rock nearby  
that she could have used as a shield . . . . . . ._

He hated this part. He really did. The thought would occur to him, pretty regularly, that he should be healing, that he should be getting used to the emptiness, that his soul shouldn't be so crippled, that recalling these events would eventually stop feeling so much like eternal damnation. But that didn't happen.

His breathing became labored, stertorous, strained. His eyes closed tightly, he attempted to skirt around it. It didn't work any better now than it ever had before. These images had been tattooed on his brain, branded on his psyche, and he knew – he _**knew**_ – he would never be rid of them. He knew this, and despaired.

_. . . . . . . The massive girder had come down on her,  
and a jagged spar sticking out one side,  
the crumpled remains of a catwalk,  
had pinned her to the floor grating  
like a delicate butterfly under glass.  
He screamed.  
He pulled and pushed and shoved,  
then transformed into a giant gorilla  
and pulled and pushed and shoved.  
He became an elephant,  
and strained against the impassive and unyielding metal  
until his skin broke and blood ran down his legs.  
But it was much, much too heavy for him to lift,  
and there wasn't room in there  
for him to morph into anything larger,  
even if he could.  
Perhaps if Starfire and Cyborg were there to help?  
But no one answered his desperate calls._

"… _Gar?"_

_Her voice was a shadow in the dusk,  
fleeting over the grass and then gone,  
but he was at her side instantly.  
"Terra!" _

"_I … couldn't … move it … sorry … so sorry …"_

"_Just … just hang on! I'll go get …"_

"_No … Gar … stay … just …"_

"_Terra!"_

"… _L – lo – love … you …"_

"_TERRA!"_

"… _Love …"_

"_**TERRA!"**_

_And that was where Starfire had found him,  
many minutes later,  
still screaming her name  
over and over and over and . . . . . . ._

He was curled up at the base of the short obelisk, crying quietly. Crying the same way he did every evening about this time. Re-living the scene. The scent of her skin, overlaid with the bright, coppery smell of her blood … the few strands of hair lying across her face … that face twisted in agony as her life not-so-slowly leaked away around the industrial version of a huge and very much immobile spear … those flawless blue eyes glazing over as death crept up and took her.

It was the metal's fault. She couldn't move it. She couldn't save herself, because it was metal. And now, metal had no part in his life. Metal was bad; metal was the enemy.

Of course there was nothing in his rational mind that could explain his acquired phobia. But it was very real anyway. He could no longer bear to look Victor in the eye. It simply hurt too much.

He lay there a long while, very gradually regaining something like control. Again, subconsciously, he knew he would. He always did. Garfield Logan was nothing if not resilient. At length, he discovered that one of his fingers was absently tracing the pattern of letters carved into the stone he leaned against, and he sighed. This was a frequent occurrence as well.

Standing, he brushed the bits of grass and dirt from his legs, and then straightened his back, staring solemnly at the stone.

"I miss you, Terra," he whispered, "so much. So much. But I know you wouldn't want me killing myself just to be with you again. And I guess I can wait." His eyes closed, and he drifted into a hyper-aware state of sound and smell and vibration. Making a vicarious circuit of his great meadow, he finally brought himself back around, and picked up his soliloquy where he'd left off. "But it's hard, Sweetie. It's really, really hard. Even after I tracked down Slade and took his head off, there was no peace. I guess I was pretty silly to think that would make anything better. I know Robin would read me the riot act about it, if he ever found out. And he's probably right."

He stopped, simply gazing at the grave marker for several minutes as the sunset deepened. "You know, I say the same thing to you every day. Yeah, paraphrased a little, maybe, but you've heard all this before. I keep thinking … you know, that, maybe if I go through it enough times …"

Blowing a frustrated sigh, he turned back to the slight trail leading to his abode, and continued, "I guess we'll see, huh? I've only been doing this a year and a half, right? And I have to wonder whether that's got me a year and a half closer to some kind of closure, or a year and a half farther down the Crazy Brick Road. I'm too close to the situation to know. You know? But I really … just really don't think I'll ever … get over you. Not the way they mean when they say it." He bit his lip and clamped down fiercely on his emotions. The next words were hardly a whisper: "Not really sure I even want to."

Another sigh escaped. "Sorry about cracking up like I did. I'll see ya tomorrow." And he trudged back to his home, morphed into a puma, and curled up under the eaves.

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**[Author's End Notes: I really was quite mesmerized by that song, and went immediately to a lyrics page and looked them up. Not a minute had passed after that before this story was sitting in my brain, waiting (impatiently) to be written. Does this happen to you, too?**

**Anyway, I would have included the lyrics to the song below, except there is apparently a FFnet rule about doing that, and I don't feel like getting banned. They do NOT, however, convey nearly as much of the mood without the music. I recommend giving it a listen. You can easily find it on Youtube.]**

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End file.
